


The Savages' Union

by VisceralComa



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Alternate Universe - Avvar, Avvar Cullen Rutherford, Biculturalism, Clayne, Clayne Cullen Rutherford, Dominance, Drugged Sex, Exhibitionism, F/M, Kidnapping, Mildly Dubious Consent, Planasene, Public Sex, Ritual Public Sex, Ritual Sex, Voice Kink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-17
Updated: 2020-10-17
Packaged: 2021-03-09 04:34:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,500
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27068707
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/VisceralComa/pseuds/VisceralComa
Summary: She'd been kidnapped by the last of the Clayne, a clan of barbaric savages of the lowlands of Ferelden. Much like the Avvar, it was their tradition to kidnap their spouses from the holds, but unlike with the Avvar - she had no clue what to expect from the Clayne.
Relationships: Cullen Rutherford/Female Trevelyan, Female Inquisitor/Cullen Rutherford
Comments: 11
Kudos: 62





	The Savages' Union

**Author's Note:**

> **CONTENT WARNING **: it's going to read like it's purely non-con...but I'm promising you right now - it's not.****

When she woke to a gag firmly in her mouth that was tied securely at the back of her head, she screamed. But it did little good for her and took her a moment to come to terms as she struggled. Her hands were bound, her ankles and knees tied tight, and she was hanging over the shoulder of a large barrel of a man covered in the furs and pelts of the red lions of the Ferelden Highlands. 

Her squirming had her kidnapper shift his hold to set her down. She caught sight of the red lion skull he wore as a helm, enforced with crude irons for the jaw. It obscured his face, but she could see his honey brown gaze which spoke volumes. He gestured with a knife. 'Be quiet, be still, or else.' She nodded her understanding and the man said nothing else, just a deep grunt as he picked her up again and carried on.

She’d never been complacent before, but she would let him think she would be - for now. Until she could get her bearings as to where they were and where he was taking her.

Far as she could remember, she'd been sleeping and now she was in her flimsy nightgown, wrapped in a pelt of some kind and was being carried through a mountain pass. The occasional winter wind ruffled up her night dress to her knees, but she didn’t shiver. She bit through it and turned the best she could to shield her face when it blasted that way. 

How had he snuck into her quarters and carried her out, unhindered and unstopped by any of Skyhold’s guards? Surely a break into the keep would have raised some alarm? The thoughts churned in her head as she retraced last night’s steps. 

She’d gone to her quarters at her usual time, recited her nightly Chants and drank her nightly tea. It had been suspiciously quiet all evening. A scout had come to the inner keep from the lowlands with news for the spymaster, but nothing for her directly. It was peaceful, almost like the trek he was taking. 

Almost. 

The distant sounds of drums rolled over the hills and settled into her stomach. They thrummed like an ancient heartbeat within the land - thu-thump thu-thump thu-thump. Over and over, getting faster and louder the further they went until finally the drumming was thunderous. A throaty roar joined the cacophony and a raucous cheer rose as they crested over a hill and stopped beneath a stone archway.

She angled herself to peer around his side, and she saw them. People gathered in a clearing in the center of an open air clearing, around a center stone dais. All of them dressed in pelts, furs, and leathers. Dressed in barbaric paints, jewels, and necklaces. 

He jostled her forward, not to put her down but to readjust her so he carried her in both arms, as though presenting her to the gathered crowd as he took the pathway down toward the dais where a stone altar awaited. 

Another cheer ran through them all and fear spiked through her. 

Why were they pleased? What manner of gathering was this? Was this a ritual? This was too far lowland to be the Avvar, yet too far into the Frostbacks to be proper Ferelden.

They passed rows of people, at the ends of which were the drummers. Again, she saw more pelts of the red lion scattered about and got a closer look at the face paint, the symbols they wore in their jewelry and frowned. The unmistakable paw prints of the polydactyl red lions. 

These were Clayne - or what remained of them. 

She’d heard of the Clayne of the Ferelden lowlands - learned about them in the Chantry lessons. They were barbaric savages. The last of them were driven to almost extinction unless they converted to the Chant in the last Orlesian occupation. And even then, of those that remained, they only survived through enslavement or being bred out. 

But this... _this_ didn’t look like they had converted or that they were extinct. On the contrary...you couldn’t get more un-Chantry like than this unless you made it Tevinter. 

Another roar filled the clearing, jolting her and spiking the fear in her further. 

She gulped as he carried her down, and she got a better look of the clearing the closer to the center they got. Distant peaks encircled the grassy clearing, trees no taller than said peaks, and a residual heat rose up from a small lake that tempered the winter winds, and left a fog that filled and crawled through the circular sloping tiers of the gathered, bringing with it a heady smell the further they descended. 

Quicker than she realized they were at the dais and he placed her on the altar, the pelt around her fell back and the drums rolled to a synchronized bang and they stopped. 

The silence was deafening after such noise. She could hear her breath behind the gag. He loosened the ropes on her hands, slowly and grasped her hands. 

She met those intense honey brown eyes again as he rubbed where the ropes had rubbed, chaffed, and bruised. She couldn’t look away, transfixed by him. 

He did the same to her ankles, lowering to his knees before her and setting the ropes on the altar beside her. His rough calloused fingers trailed over her feet, where his hot breath sent shivers up her spine and raised gooseflesh across her thighs. 

She was reminded again, she was only in her nightgown. With no smalls or breast band, in a strange place - surrounded by savage Claynes and with no weapon. All thoughts of her earlier faked complacency were replaced by a very real need to do as told - if she were to get out of this safely. 

But that didn’t mean she had to be silent. She held back a grin as he rose and undid the gag around her. 

Freed of it, she opened her mouth to tell him off but a booming voice interrupted.

An older woman wearing a similar red lion helm, this one without the jaw, stepped forward from the inner ring of those gathered in the stone rows of seating. They said something in a language she didn’t understand, but she caught one word and only because it was said as the elder woman looked toward the man. 

“Cuilleanáin.” 

He stepped away from the dais to drop to one knee and raised up when the elder woman called his name again. A long silence stretched between them, the silence in the clearing ever louder before he pulled his helm up and off. He dropped it at his feet. He removed his furry red lion pelt, pulled his inner leather armor off, vambraces joining the pile on the floor and greaves. 

She watched all this, in shock as he slowly undressed until he wore nothing in front of the whole clearing of dozens of people. He stood proudly, with his head held high, long hair braided back and swaying behind him. 

He looked to her, expectantly as the older woman called her name. 

How did they know her name? She looked at him. Was it him? Did he tell them?

The elder woman again called her name, but she was transfixed in his gaze again. Frozen as he stared back at her with a deep longing that left her squirming - not wholly uncomfortably. 

He flicked his gaze to the spot beside the elder woman and then toward the rows of people. One eyebrow rose in suggestion as he repeated the motion. 

Was he indicating she could leave? 

Tentatively, she dropped from the altar. The Clayne guards surrounding the inner ring did nothing as she approached the elder woman, intending on bypassing her to the way out, when a hand gripped the back of her nightgown by the neck. 

Fabric tore behind her and she barely was able to catch it before it fully fell. 

Unfortunately, she didn’t get away with her modesty in front of these strangers and her kidnapper. Two women guards stepped up and pulled at her night dress, leaving her as nude as her kidnapper. She tried to cover herself, hunching forward and backing up.

The pelt! 

She looked behind her to the altar and ran back to grab it to cover herself. But she didn’t get the chance.

He was on her as quick as she had moved. Hands gripped her upper arm as he crowded her to his chest, holding her there with a smug grin. She struggled, raised one hand to hit him - but he caught it and chuckled deeply in his chest as he pushed her down on the altar. 

She scrambled and squawked, screeching. Never once uttering a single word - only sounds as he let go of her enough until she was scuttling backward on the altar to get away from him. 

But she played right into his hands, for he was quick to follow her. 

He climbed on top and pulled her back by her ankle before she could escape. He pinned her down, hovering over her. His gaze raked over her body before they settled on her eyes, boring into them. His lips puckered and he shushed her as he held both of her wrists overhead with one hand and wrapped his legs with hers to keep her still. Using his free hand, he brushed his braid and hair back and did the same for her, lingering on her cheek as she heaved.

“Let. Me. Go,” she seethed, angry at being so easily captured and pinned. 

“Would that I could,” he chuckled lowly and then shushed her again as the elder woman addressed the gathered crowd again. But his eyes never left hers. 

They were breathing each other, his body lying atop hers. Intimately aware of his nudity and rising affliction. She didn’t dare move but his proximity, his intense longing stare awoke something in her - something she suppressed - trying her damndest to keep some semblance of control of the situation. 

He shifted his free hand so most of his weight rested on his forearm. 

Her skin jolted and shivered when he did and she gasped. 

“You sounded like you could barely breathe.” He explained, softly into her ear. 

She had been panting, only she hadn’t noticed - not until she no longer had an excuse for it and not for the reason he assumed. _Resist._ She told herself. 

He blew a tuft of hair back and she bit her tongue to keep from moaning. 

Copper and rust filled the air between them and he growled, low. But he said nothing, rising when the elder woman came over with a bowl of a sweetly saccharine smelling bowl. They tilted it to his mouth and he drank from it and swallowed. They looked at her, laying there, struggling to release his grip and once again he drank from the bowl - but didn’t swallow. 

Instead he lowered his mouth to hers. She kept her lips pressed firmly tight. But they squeezed her nose. It took a minute but her mouth opened and it flooded with the liquid. 

It was spirits, strong enough she coughed after swallowing it with his open mouth kiss. 

Mirth filled his eyes as he pulled back, his tongue flicked out to lick his lips. She followed the movement, as he slowed over the scar that split his upper lip. 

The elder woman approached again, this time with a different bowl. They spoke more words in that same language that was foreign to her, but he rose with the command - just enough to allow them to spill the bowl’s contents between them. 

It was viscous, but not sticky. It made their skin glossy, shiny and slick.

Her breath hitched when he pressed his body to hers again, his weight heavy as he rubbed their chests and abdomens together. It spread everywhere their body touched and more. 

It dropped between her legs to her center and coated his length as it continued to harden. This time, she couldn’t stop the moan in time - cutting it halfway when the oil warmed and tingled with the winter wind that gusted. 

“Ooo-” She squeezed her eyes shut as he slid his free hand to cup her jaw and drew her into a tightlipped kiss, that melted with the relaxing scent of lavender. 

Her heart rattled in her ribcage and thundered in her ears as he worked his mouth against hers. 

She tensed her legs, squirming as the oil tingled in places she almost wished they hadn’t. It elicited a gasping cry and whimper as his length rested against her slit. 

His smug grin was all she saw as she realized he had long since untangled his legs with hers and she had slowly enveloped his hips, spreading her limbs open to welcome him. 

“How…” she rasped as he rubbed against her. 

“No questions.” he warned softly as he released her wrists. 

There was a faint instinct to push him away, to fight and run, but instead of doing that - instead of going for freedom, she drew him closer as he dipped a hand between them, his fingers slid right into her sopping quim. 

She moaned when his fingers hooked inside her and massaged, reaching the very edges of her stomach clenching spot. His thumb pressed gently, edging around her clit as well - teasing and taunting. 

“Please.” she whined into his ear - impatient and squirming. She no longer cared of the watching crowd

“No.” 

He kissed her, traveling his way down her jaw, neck, and chest where he nuzzled her breasts. He swirled his tongue around her nipples, grazing them with his teeth and lightly biting each of them in time with his massaging fingers. Increasing the pressure just shy of her clit before he switched things up and pulled back entirely 

The sudden loss of sensation wrenched an aggravated whine from her as he sat back, his stare firmly on her with his hand held out. 

She didn’t wait, barely even let herself consider running and chased after him, straddling his lap to continue rubbing against him - but he had other plans. He positioned himself just so, and between the oil and her slick wet heat, he slid in easily as she sat down on him. 

“Oh Maker...” She moaned and looked up to the night sky. The horizon was lightening. A fact that was so far from her mind - but was very much on his as he pulled her down slowly, carefully to ensure he didn’t hurt her until he was nestled fully inside her folds.

They both released a sigh and he pulled her face down for a slow and languid kiss that ended with her pressing her forehead to his as she raised herself up and dropped down. 

He met her fall with an upward thrust. The sound of the oil and her wet want squelched between them. Their breaths grew heavy and heated as again she rose and fell, and again he met her. 

A few times he had to slow, eyes closed as he remained sheathed inside her, but his fingers toyed with her clit - keeping her on edge and giving himself a reprieve. 

She mewled and whined, her legs clenching as tight as her stretched lips when the first wave of her orgasm hit and she arched her back. 

He shuddered driving up into her, slowly as he focused on her breasts. His hands massaging from her shoulders, down her sides and up to her breasts. His tongue quickly followed as he worked her over toward her next one - connecting the two. 

Her back shivered when it came and she cried out silently. 

His patience snapped and he gripped her hips hard enough to bruise. He yanked her down, and rut up in shallow rough thrusts - chasing his own release. She came down from her second but was thrown to her third when he gripped her hair and yanked her head back to force her gaze up.

White lightning filled her vision and her body became loose and boneless as the sun crested over the horizon.

She fell back against the altar as she quivered, and he followed. Desperately thrusting into her, hefting one of her legs up over his shoulder until he too looked up to the sky in bliss. 

Their heaving breaths was all she heard for a moment as he lay beside her on the altar - a pelt thrown over them - when the sound of drums, and gourds, a tinkling of metal and singing started. No - rather she was just noticing it. It shifted to a song of celebration. 

She didn’t care what they did, instead her gaze settled on the man beside her under the pelt. Their gazes locked. His hand snaked under the pelt - finding her left hand and bringing it up to kiss the ring that was a permanent fixture on her finger. 

It melted the last bits of her that wanted to fight him - to struggle. Instead she sought him out, shifting closer as they held hands and they kissed again. They kissed until the music died around them.

They both sat up. Attendants came up to the altar, handing them both white robes. They stood side by side by the altar as the older woman looked them over and nodded. They raised their held hands and the older woman grabbed them and pressed a kiss to them before she backed up. 

That’s when the clearing got very silent as an old man rose from the rows. They used a cane and wore a horse skull helm with a long cloak and dark riding leathers. They approached the two, looking them over.

She straightened her posture under their familiar judgemental gaze. Her cheeks reddened when she remembered what the old man had bore witness to. 

The old man took a moment, before they gestured for the attending guards. One held a bowl out with white paint, which the old man dipped their fingers. They looked to her - expectantly and she lowered her head in a bow - allowing them to dot her forehead, nose, and cheeks and slide their finger down her lips to her chin to paint a single line. 

With another bowl, the old man dipped their finger in black paint and did the same to him. 

When both were painted, the old man spoke. 

“With your union witnessed by our gods, the maker, and our families - who do you swear to Cuilleanáin?”

A goblet was held out to him and he grabbed it. It was filled with the same spirits they drank earlier. He turned to her, and she to him. 

“I swear on the pyre of our Lady Andraste, and under the watchful gaze of our Lady of the Skies - and by the holy fires which I light…” He rubbed the rim of the goblet and the liquid erupted in a searing blue fire. “I give you my fealty, my love, and pledge you my undying loyalty. If my hand shall ever be raised in rebellion against you, if my body shall ever stray from our union, if I am ever unfaithful of heart, then I ask that I be cast to the fires for the greatest sin of our people, betrayal.” He dropped to one knee and held the goblet up. “For you are my hearth, my heart, my sword, and my life. I am yours.” 

She grasped the goblet and spoke the words. “As you have sworn, husband Cuilleanáin.”

“As he has sworn!” The gathered cried. 

She drank from the goblet half the fiery spirits and angled it for him to drink. He grasped the cup, draining it and letting the goblet drop much to the delight of others. 

The old man with the horse helm revealed himself as her father and the old woman was his mother. The two elders grasped arms. 

“The last clans of Clayne and the Planasene are thus united. Let us commence the celebrations!” The old woman called with a laugh. 

With that, all formality of the ritual broke, helms removed and music began again and food was brought forward to be shared as dancing began. 

She grasped his hand as they were expected to remain by each other’s side. 

“Inquisitor?” Cuilleanáin- _Cullen_ spoke as he squeezed her hand. 

She shook her head, lips tight before punching his upper arm and he winced playfully. 

“What?!” He chuckled and pulled her close. 

“You could have told me it would be tonight! Didn’t have to scare me like that!” She swatted his hand from sneaking around her waist. 

“You were the one who wanted it to be _traditional_.” He tutted and taunted. “You neglected to mention exactly how traditional.”

“Ugh!” She rolled her eyes and yanked him down. “Shush you.” 

He smirked as they kissed, and she pulled back. “And really? We’re married and you _still_ call me Inquisitor?” 

**Author's Note:**

> Use of the words savage and barbaric are purposeful - due to some Dragon Age fandom drama on tumblr the last three months. If you're curious, look under the tag "the mess 2020" and you'll get the gist. 
> 
> Catch me on the romantic train, that fealty swearing was inspired by Outlander (the show and the books).


End file.
